


Four Times Sherlock Cock-Blocked Watson and One Time He Didn't

by alizarin_nyc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-01
Updated: 2010-10-01
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alizarin_nyc/pseuds/alizarin_nyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><strong>Betas:</strong> The lovely <a href="http://pippal.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://pippal.livejournal.com/"><strong>pippal</strong></a> and <a href="http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/"></a><strong>_doodle</strong> were most kind in their beta duties. Sometimes I ignored them and those are the mistakes you'll see. American spelling herein.<br/></p>
    </blockquote>





	Four Times Sherlock Cock-Blocked Watson and One Time He Didn't

**Author's Note:**

> **Betas:** The lovely [](http://pippal.livejournal.com/profile)[**pippal**](http://pippal.livejournal.com/) and [](http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/profile)[](http://users.livejournal.com/_doodle/)**_doodle** were most kind in their beta duties. Sometimes I ignored them and those are the mistakes you'll see. American spelling herein.  
> 

  
John counts the first time as Anthea, even though he never really stood a chance. But what man could stand a chance when it's only Holmes they want?

For a few days after his first meeting with Mycroft, he allows himself the luxury of a daydream; one in which he is again picked up in the black BMW and driven to meet Sherlock's shady alter ego. Only this time, Anthea looks up from her Blackberry and really _sees_ John. Takes him in, head to toe, likes what she sees. Stretches her legs out and lets her skirt ride up.

In this scenario, John is the mystery man. Sherlock is just an excuse for people to talk to _him_. And Anthea makes the most of their long rides to get to know him better, to get to know him intimately.

Daydreams are such luxuries.

The next time the BMW picks him up Anthea doesn't acknowledge him. On the way back though, she turns as if to ask him something. John swivels expectantly in his seat.

"What's he like?" she purrs.

"What? Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes, of course."

She obviously doesn't like his rude reply because when they pull up at the flat she snaps, "Get out."

  
2

The second time is so very, very obvious, and John is so utterly annoyed, he cannot really get over the fact that Sherlock is butting in on his _date_. It's not like dates come along all that often, and when they do, particularly if they are with lovely women like Sarah who smell very nice, John does not want Sherlock involved in any of it.

Naturally, not only is Sherlock thoroughly involved, he has basically set it up for abject failure. He appears to have never heard of "third wheel." And just as John is reaching the end of his tether and trying to salvage the whole disaster, he is mistaken for Sherlock and not only is he kidnapped, but Sarah is too.

After their dramatic rescue, Sarah quickly slips into Sherlock's arms in gratitude. "If you hadn't come," she says, giving him a brief but altogether friendly squeeze. "If you hadn't…"

John glares at Sherlock. He got her into the whole business to begin with. Sherlock gives him his very best faux grin over her shoulder, crinkling up his face in a parody of what other people would call pleased.

The tentative "take care" she throws John's way when he drops her off at her flat can, if you're in a self-pitying mood, be interpreted as a brush-off, a simple "Sorry, but I value my life too much to go out with you ever again…"

He hopes at least his job is safe.

  
3

John's next date is a blind one, but Harry insists and he wants to keep the peace. What he doesn't realize is that there is no peace, his blind date is a booby trap and knowing his sister he should damn well know to be more careful.

He can think of nothing to say to her, the two of them sitting there, like chalk and cheese. She stares at him, her mouth slightly ajar and John can't stand it so he starts to talk, to babble really, about what else? _Sherlock_. The more he says, the more he finds he has to say. He describes the cases they've solved, Sherlock's penchant for going off on his own, and even John's complicity in the recent serial killer suicides case, although he stops well short of the full story. Some secrets are for him and Sherlock alone.

So it's an evening of "my flatmate this," and "my flatmate that" and at the end John almost wants to continue the date in order to keep on talking about Sherlock.

"Goodnight John," she says firmly, giving him a peck on the cheek as they step out of the restaurant. "Good luck with your flatmate. I think you should, you know, come right out with it, no point in beating around the bush. Better that's all out in the open, isn't it?"

"Oh no, you… sorry, that's… you've misunderstood," he begins - and ends - feebly.

"Right, of course," she smiles politely. "Goodnight."

He'll never hear the end of this from Harry.

  
4

John meets Alicia in the pub and luckily he is a considerable number of pints ahead of the game when she walks in with a friend.

"Easy now," Lestrade says, low in his ear. "Bit young for you, I think."

"Tourists," Sally says, glaring at them over her beer. "Or foreign students. They'll drop their knickers for your accent, though."

John is just drunk enough to test that theory. The girls are not tourists and while very attractive, they're not as young as they look. They tell him they're doing "post-graduate" work in London, and they speak like intelligent human beings, not that it matters on this particular evening. They do love his accent and Lestrade smirks at them on his way out. John manages to convince Alicia to come by his flat for another drink when the pub calls time. He's so buoyed by his own success, he doesn't even think about his flat, about who is in it and the sorts of things likely to be lying around.

It's like he sets himself up for failure.

"A skull?" she asks, dubious at first, but probably increasingly aware that she may have just walked into a serial killer's flat, and her relatives in America will be saying "I told you not to go running off to Europe!"

John puts on his best reassuring face, one that is instantly dissolved by the timely appearance of Sherlock, in a blue silk dressing gown, hair like a small lively animal, trailing odd smells of formaldehyde and decay.

"Oh hello," he says, full of false charm. "I didn't know we had company. John?"

"Um, Sherlock, this is – this is, Alicia. And Alicia, um, this is my flatmate, Sherlock."

"Hi," she says, and John can tell that she is in no way reassured by his presence. She shifts almost imperceptibly toward the door, but Sherlock keeps a keen eye on her and John sighs. Sherlock smiles at her and John winces. Sherlock's phony smiles could put the horror film industry to shame. That's how unsettling they are. Sherlock throws himself on the sofa and sprawls inelegantly, one hand on his forehead.

"Must think," he mutters.

"Perhaps you can do your thinking elsewhere," John suggests.

"I'll make the tea," Sherlock says. John stares at him. It's so unlike him to offer to do anything, unless of course, he's up to something. "You like sugar in yours, two teaspoons, I think, no milk." Alicia startles when she realizes Sherlock is addressing her.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"He does that," John says, shooting Sherlock a warning look. Sherlock ignores it completely and focuses his intense gaze on Alicia. John feels his stomach sink.

"You're also getting a Masters in International Relations at Webster Graduate School, with quite a bit of financial aid, and this is not your first year, so likely you're well into your second year, probably because you're dragging your feet. You worked at a job you hated before you enrolled. You want to stay in London after you graduate-"

"I'm sorry, what?" Alicia is quickly sobering up and John resists the urge to put his head in his hands.

"The most obvious option is to marry someone with British citizenship, so you're looking to get serious, but you're also a romantic, so this won't be easy. You would not ordinarily be interested in a man like John, but he's a doctor, so you think that he's worth some consideration."

"I don't know how you know all that," Alicia says, looking more and more like a deer in headlights with each word, "but it's pretty creepy. And you're wrong about one thing."

"Oh?" Sherlock arches an eyebrow and John wants to suggest she not even try to fend him off.

"I had no idea John's a doctor. I'd love to stay in London, yes, but you're right, I want to meet the right person. And I think John is pretty cute." John risks a glance at Alicia. She smiles shyly and John allows himself to think that maybe the evening isn't lost after all. Sherlock harrumphs and ties his dressing gown more firmly about himself.

She turns again to Sherlock. "It's amazing, what you did. Did you research me on the Internet? How did you know all that?"

"Don't you want to tell him to piss off?" John asks.

"Your open bag reveals an appointment book with your school's crest. Next to it, Theories of International Relations, full of complete rubbish by the way. So far, so obvious," Sherlock says, and strides the length of the room. Alicia's eyes follow him. John can see how she notes his slim fingers, and his hair, his damn hair, as he runs those fingers through it. Romantic. She's a romantic. And Sherlock is straight out of a Bronte novel.

"The grass stains on your shoes tell me you cut across the square at Regent's College to get to your afternoon classes, which is where the foreign policy classes are held. I have a brother that once gave a terrible lecture there. The way you're dressed suggests someone who knows that appearances matter, however, you're not _so_ well-dressed upon closer inspection, your shoes are well-worn and polished by hand, skirt is mended by hand and your phone is far from the latest model, so that means you don't have a lot of money. Americans always claim to hate their job; you disliked yours so intensely that you left in order to move overseas for study. You're not one of the well off students that waste their time partying in the big London clubs like many of your classmates, you, on the other hand, only frequent nearby pubs, in which my friend John here also passes the time with his police friends."

John shouldn't be as surprised as he is that Sherlock knows where he goes, what he does and with whom, but he feels a sudden pang of guilt for not inviting him. He isn't sure Sherlock would want to drink in a pub with Lestrade and Co but he's absolutely sure that they would be put off by his presence.

"Again, your bag gives a lot away," Sherlock continues, just getting warmed up. "Romantic florals, a well-read Jane Austen novel inside, and it's definitely from Waterstones. You shop at Boots and you're wearing their No7 cosmetics, I can smell _that_." Sherlock wrinkles his nose, but barely pauses. "Ticket stubs for various small theatre productions sticking out of the appointment book, Waterstones, Boots, local pubs… you've gone native my dear Alicia. Add a British husband to your collection and your life here doesn't have to end."

"There's a severed head in the fridge," John says brightly.

"Incredible," Alicia says, eyes wide, and John knows the game is over. She's smitten. Sherlock beckons her into his "lab" and seems for once, to enjoy having an attentive audience.

"John, make the tea while we chat," Sherlock says.

  
5

It was a rough run, not without a few tumbles, and John had torn his best jumper on a spiked fence.

They fetch up in the hallway of their flat, as usual, catching their breath before attempting the stairs. Safe at last. Well, as safe as one can be given Sherlock's penchant for dangerous intrigue.

"If only I had a woman that you hadn't chased away, now would be a good time for an energetic shag," John says breathlessly before he can think about it.

"Would it indeed?" Sherlock looks straight at him and raises his eyebrow.

"Yes, go ahead and laugh. You, the man who has sex with his work, it's all amusing for you. Some of us are human however. Our brains aren't all we cater to."

Sherlock's grin turns wry.

"You know John…"

"Don't rub it in Sherlock, it's been a hell of a night already."

John makes a move to trudge up the stairs. Sherlock stops him. "John," he says more insistently.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I really don't mind as much as I make out. Except for Sarah, but that's not unfixable and not completely your fault."

"You're frustrated," Sherlock says. "And I say that for your benefit, because it's far too obvious an observation for me to make."

"Well, thanks for the obvious, then." John sighs and stops on the stair. "It's just that it's been a while. And all this running around, chasing criminals, the excitement is really going to my head. It's making me feel alive in ways I hadn't expected to… quite so soon." _After Afghanistan,_ doesn't need to be said.

"Fair enough," Sherlock says mildly. It's clear that the excitement doesn't affect him in the same way. They move up the stairs in tandem, John is still panting, but Sherlock is silent behind him.

"So the adrenalin, it doesn't get to you?" John is asking a ridiculous question, knowing he won't get a satisfactory answer.

"John."

"What now?" John turns as they enter the flat and is surprised by the look on Sherlock's face.

"I'm a man, if that's what you're asking." Sherlock runs a hand through his hair. He looks… _perturbed_ , if that's even possible. "Now will you answer what _I'm_ asking?"

John has no idea what Sherlock is talking about. "Look, I'm tired, I'm horny, let's skip tea and I'll debrief Lestrade with you in the morning."

"I'm not tired," Sherlock says.

"So?" John casts about for an explanation for Sherlock's cryptic statements. It's a game they play of course. Sherlock says cryptic things and leads John to the correct conclusions, hiding his pleased smile when John figures it out. Tonight is not the best time for that, and John really wants to escape to the privacy of his bedroom and have a wank. Yes, he's man enough to admit that to himself, although he blushes slightly since Sherlock is still looking at him.

"I want to skip tea as well," Sherlock says, and steps a fraction closer.

John wonders if Sherlock is suggesting what he thinks he might be suggesting. He tries to move past Sherlock toward his chair, but Sherlock grips his wrist. John has had enough for one week and the touch of Sherlock's slim fingers on his pulse-point is enough to send him over the edge. He didn't even know – no clue actually, he thinks – that Sherlock did it for him in that way. But apparently he does. John looks at Sherlock's mouth and yes, it's amazing. He's wanted to kiss it for ages without _knowing_ he's wanted to. And now he needs to.

John grips Sherlock's lapels, the bird wings of his constant coat and pulls him in, pressing his mouth against Sherlock's. He's been frustrated so many times these past few weeks, why not? What's one more disappointment? But the expected shove, or snort of derision doesn't come. Sherlock instantly reacts, not to reject John's advances but to one-up him. Sherlock kisses like a house on fire. He bends over him and takes possession of John's mouth, clumsily, but with real fervor. John's head is full of sparks that burst down his spine and light up other parts of him. He can barely breathe and he thinks _this is Sherlock's mouth, his tongue, it's Sherlock I'm kissing_ and the shock is really a lot to take in at once.

He breaks the contact. "This is… what is this," he says, and puts his hand gingerly on Sherlock's chest.

"My God, you're slow," Sherlock says. "What must that be like, in your head, to move at a snail's pace all the time? Sort of like pressing pause on the remote every time something interesting happens so you can process it? If only we lived in a future where there were upgrades for your personal processor and perhaps some flying cars."

"Don't make fun of me," John snaps.

"Dear me, I wouldn't dream of such a thing."

John wants to wipe the arch look off his face. He considers punching him, but instead, he touches his own lips briefly, remembers how Sherlock had kissed him, and knows with certainty that this wasn't just to appease him, or throw him off. Sherlock _wanted_ to. He's reacting in an utterly human way - he's afraid of being rejected, he's cautious, he's putting up walls.

"Aha!" John crows. He grabs Sherlock again by the lapels, but this time, he's pulling off that damned coat and he's backing him toward the sofa. "Yes, I'm slow, so very, very slow," he says.

"Time to catch up," Sherlock says, helping relieve himself of the coat and pulling John down so they're face-to-face on the sofa. Sherlock's knees knock against John's. He's nervous, and John suddenly finds that the biggest turn on. He cups his face, pulls it to him, and Sherlock turns into the kiss, sweet this time, and soft.

John moves his hands from Sherlock's face to roam the surfaces of his body. He wants to touch skin, and his fingers fumble at the button on Sherlock's shirt. He tries for a casual flick, but the button stays stubborn under his nails, he skims his thumb over the familiar shape, hating it. The fabric strains as John struggles, but the button holds fast.

"It can be undone," Sherlock says. And John thinks, _bloody hell, so can I._

Sherlock reaches up, under John's hands and unbuttons his shirt. There's a slice of pale light slanting in the window and Sherlock's skin is pearl-white underneath his clothes. John kisses his chest, feels Sherlock's fingers curling up at his waist. He doesn't know what he's doing but he wants to do so much. Sherlock pulls off the torn jumper and John vaguely remembers how it happened, hardly caring anymore about whatever potential suspect Sherlock had in his sights earlier. He feels more breathless now than he's felt all night. Sherlock's hands land on his belt, and he briefly wonders how experienced Sherlock is.

John is hot, and is suddenly in rather a large hurry to get his clothes off. He needs to feel skin, needs to have Sherlock's hands on him. He struggles out of his clothes and catches Sherlock smirking as he takes off his own. Sherlock seems in no rush and yet they both end up in the nude at the same time. "Socks," Sherlock says, and John obliges him by struggling to remove those as well.

Once they're off, Sherlock pushes him down on the sofa and John feels his arse stick against the leather that probably is in no way sterile. But it doesn't matter because Sherlock is stretching out on top of him and fitting himself between John's legs and then it feels as if every inch of John is touching Sherlock and he's surprised to find that he doesn't even mind the obvious fact that Sherlock has a cock, and he's doing really interesting things with it alongside John's own. John bucks up into him and his brain is effectively _off_. It doesn't take very long, in fact, it's too quick, and John laments as he lets out a groan. Sherlock reaches down to help them along and John can feel both his fingers and his cock and it's fantastic. He shudders and shuts his eyes against the pleasurable whiteout, committing to memory the sight of Sherlock's face in a rare, unguarded, extremely erotic moment.

"Well," Sherlock says after half a minute, clearing his throat and sitting up, "now can we get back to the business of catching murderers without your libido getting in the way?"

"Oh yes. I'm sorted," John says from his supine position, pressed heavily into the couch, and idly wondering if he'll ever be able to move again. He sees Sherlock turn away, and he is gripped with a sense that he really needs to hang on to this moment and not mess it up, and if he does, it's going to be awkward and hostile between them. And if it's one thing he tires of quickly, it's a hostile Sherlock Holmes.

He reaches for Sherlock's wrist and yanks. "I'm sorted for about twenty minutes," he says carefully. He sees the look of surprise on Sherlock's face as he pulls him in and awkwardly kisses him. Sherlock looks annoyed. John kisses him again and again until Sherlock gives up and flops over on the couch, letting John have his way. "You didn't think once was going to cut it, did you?" Sherlock moves to put his lips on John's neck and immediately finds the spot that only John knows about.

"Let's see if we can make it ten," Sherlock says.

~end~


End file.
